“What are my options?” I squint as I fix my gaze on the space above her head, trying to read the coloured lines between whatever words come next.

“Moving forward with a fairly aggressive proactive treatment protocol could increase your odds of a more favourable outcome and quality of life, and in that case I would recommend terminating the pregnancy. But if you elect to carry on, we cross our fingers and hope for the best.”

She flips through some papers and keeps going.

“The good news is that your tumours have not grown in size or complexity. Therefore, while carrying your pregnancy to term is not without risks due to your age and health status, it is not urgent that we pursue aggressive treatment options. We could wait until after you give birth, if you choose.”

“Can I see the pictures?” I say, my body and brain so numb that I scarcely notice how tightly I’m gripping the pleather arms of the faux-cozy doctor’s office chair.

“From the ultrasound?” Dr. Divyaratna smiles.

“No,” I say, “the MRI. The tumours.”

She tilts her head, and eyes me like I’ve lost it. After a quick rummage, she glides the big black sheet into place on a big white wall-mounted box. She turns on the backlight, and there they are, shining and leaping out from the greyness of their surroundings like wispy white explosions. Seditious little stars in a matter-of-fact grey sky. Parry Homunculus, Ziggy Stardust, and Fuzzy Wuzzy, fully illuminated. Before I know it, I’m parked in front of the light box, gently tracing the white lines that trail away from the solid centres with my fingers. Smiling and welling up with tears. Whispering the only lullaby Mama ever sang to me,

There was liquor on the barroom floor,

and the bar was closed for the night . . .

“They let you out?” I try not to sound weak as I emerge from Dr. Divyaratna’s office with an armload of leaflets on tumours and pregnancies and ways to deal with both, to see Char standing there with Daktari perched on her cocked hip, gnawing on the tip of one of her neatly tied back dreadlocks.

“Yo, I be blowin’ this pop stand. Back to tha muthaland,” Char booms, with a crotch thrust, a fist pump, and kissing her teeth at the wall, before flipping some kind of switch, straightening up, and adding with a sweet shrug, “actually, moving into Peggy’s with my baby. Doctor said that I’m right as rain.”

“That’s great.” Though I doubt that it is. Then I watch as Char’s aura or halo or whatever it is begins to materialize, gently pushing past her matted mane and into the emptiness surrounding her. An earthy, vegetative green base gives rise to little dashes of light purple. Like violets blooming in a bed of moss. Something new has taken root in Char. And it’s starting to bloom.

The drive home is a slow, greasy one. Snow. Then sleet. Then snow on top of sleet on top of snow followed by a precipitous drop in temperature. Mossy and Char and the baby are all conked out in the back seat. Peggy is white knuckling ’er along the mess of a highway. I feel sick and cranky.